“Tasha King knows I exist?” Ellie paces running her fingers through her hair. She stops mid stride then turns to me. “I’m going to meet Tasha King?”
“Yes, and please don’t act like a fangirl when you do.”
Ellie goes to flip me off then remembers our elders. Instead, she says tersely, “Tasha King is black girl magic goals. I will fangirl if I want.”
Mom laughs. “Then it’s settled. I’ll tell Jasmine to set it up, and you guys can sit down with her tomorrow before your flight back to New York.”
We spend the next couple of hours catching up before Mom gets tired and they leave. As soon as the door shuts, Ellie jumps on my back, hooking her legs around my waist. “I know this stuff with your mom is heavy, and I know this stuff with your dad is heavy, and I know this stuff with Anderson Capital is heavy, but let’s just pretend, for tonight, that it’s just you and me. We can go back to brooding tomorrow, okay?”
“Anything you want, baby,” I say, dropping her on the bed. “What did you have in mind?”
“I think I like Chicago, Max.” She giggles as she bounces. “Umm, let’s see. We’ve never been on a date? You could feed me?”
I grin, but before I can comment she’s up and slapping her palm over my mouth. “Not your cock, asshole. I want a real meal.”
“How about both,” I mumble behind her hand.
Her gray eyes twinkle with amusement. “I take it back, you’re a dick any time zone.”
“But you love me,” I say, lifting her off her feet.
She throws her head back in laughter. “Lord only knows why.”
Max pulls some strings and gets us a seat at the chef’s table at Nova, a fusion restaurant in downtown Chicago. I cling to his hand as he follows the host through the dining area. Steel light fixtures illuminate the space. It’s industrial in design, masculine with wooden floors and leather-back chairs. We stop at a table set for two near the kitchen. Max slides my thrift store coat down my arms, revealing the gorgeous red cocktail dress I scored from a little shop just outside our hotel.
A growl rips from his throat, unabashed, feral, and dripping with sex. I’ve never been eye-fucked before, at least not properly, and certainly not by a man who owns me, mind, body, and soul. The way Max’s eyes slide down the deep V in the front, revealing a sliver of bare skin, makes my entire body tingle. The feel of his fingertips ghosting over the satin fabric hugging my hips sears me, branding me to him. Possessiveness and need and want swirl in his hungry gaze. He leans in, his forehead kisses mine. “Like the dress, Piss Girl.”
I giggle quietly, smoothing down his tie, as I glance up at him coyly. “Not so bad yourself, Mr. Anderson.” And by not so bad, I mean holy shit, this man is fine. Scruffy chin, deep blue eyes, and body chiseled from stone.
Our host clears his throat, reminding us that we are not alone, but in fact in the middle of a very fancy restaurant. “Your server will be right out,” the guy says, scurrying back to the front.
My cheeks burn as Max pulls out my chair then drops down in the seat next to me. “I think he was worried we were about to start fucking on the pressed linen,” I whisper.
“I’d be lying if I say the thought didn’t cross my mind,” Max says, taking a sip from the water on the table. “I’m glad I had to run down to the lobby before you finished getting ready. Had I seen you in that earlier, we’d have never left the hotel.”
“Maybe we should have stayed.” I chew on my bottom lip, nervously eyeing the crystal water goblet like it might explode. I can’t even keep my phone screen intact, how the hell am I supposed to make it through this dinner without breaking something, or multiple somethings. “Why didn’t you tell me this place was so fancy?”
“Where’d you think I’d take you on our first date? The Olive Garden?” He makes a face like The Olive Garden is the first date equivalent to doing a bid on Rikers Island.
“I mean, maybe not The Olive Garden per se, but…” I let the, I’d be down for unlimited soup, salad, and breadsticks die on my tongue.
“You really do have shitty taste in men.” Max drops an arm around my shoulder and whispers, “Pussy that tastes as good as yours deserves five-star meals, don’t ever forget that.”
“Awe, P-Three, you’re going soft on me.”
“You never have to worry about that.” He takes my hand and drops it into his lap. He’s hard as lead and it makes my mouth water and my clit throb.
“Welcome to Nova, I’m James,” our server, a tall man with broad shoulders and an even broader smile, says. I yank my hand from Max’s lap and nearly knock over the water goblet. James smiles again and continues talking like nothing happened. “The chef has prepared the twelve-course tasting menu and our sommelier has chosen a vintage bottle of red.”
He presents the bottle to Max, who nods, pops the cork, and pours a little in the bottom of the wine glass. Max swirls the tiny bit of wine around the glass before taking a sip. “Very good.”
James fills the rest of Max’s glass, then mine. “It’s a good one.” He grins at me. There’s something about his eyes, kind and reassuring. It sets me at ease. I lift the glass and return his smile, taking a drink. I don’t usually like wine, but when in Rome. The flavor hits my tongue, oaky but not bitter. I say as much, and James nods. “I knew you’d like it.”
Max clears his throat. My eyes snap to his and I see the little vein in his forehead pulse. Here we go. “My girlfriend’s breasts aren’t on the menu.” He growls at the poor man who’s only doing his job.
James straightens up. “Oh, of course not, sir. I didn’t mean…”
“P-Three, chill. This is supposed to be fun.” I roll my eyes and pat James’s arm. “Don’t mind him. He’s having a rough week.”
James nods and says, “I’ll check on the first course.”
Once he’s out of earshot, I turn to Max. “You don’t have to bite off every man’s head who gets within five feet of me.”
“Yes, I do.” The bastard smirks.
“Why?”
He leans into my ear, and whispers, “Because you like it.” Preston Maxwell Anderson III is a cheeky bastard. The words were invented for him. Unfortunately for me, Google hopelessly in love and my dumb ass will pop up. But it’s true. I’m hopelessly, madly, deeply in love.
“Maybe a little.” I blush.
He rubs his nose against mine. “Maybe a lot.”
His other hand comes around and he squeezes my thigh. His fingers ghost up the inside of my leg and he traces my pussy with his knuckle. “Maybe a lot,” I acquiesce. “Tell me something about you. Something I don’t already know.” A frown finds my face as I realize, there isn’t much about Max that I do know. It was great when we were having contractual sex, but now that we are free agent fucking, I’d like to know more about him.
“Hmm, like what?” he asks as James drops a plate of food in front of me that looks like it belongs in a dollhouse.
“The first course is the chef’s take on a cheesesteak—wagyu wrapped around queso fresco, and a spoonful of caviar with a sweet corn meringue.”
Max nods, his nose trailing up and down the side of my cheek. “Thank you, James.”
I stab into the steak wrapped cheese thingy and bring the fork to my lips. “Erin would love this,” I muse before taking a bite.
His thumb caresses my knee. “She’s a chef, right?”
“On paper, yes.” The steak melts in my mouth and a vulgar moan escapes my lips despite our surroundings.
“You like?” Max chuckles, grabbing his fork and eating his steak cheeseball.
“I do. Erin used to work at a French restaurant in Manhattan.” I’m not a stranger to good food. I have a twin sister who’s classically trained in French cuisine, but whereas Erin has an appreciation for food—how it’s made, the science behind it—I just like to eat. I’d be happy here, or in our tiny kitchen, or at the nearest Panda Express.
“What happened?” He lifts the caviar spoon to his lips.
�
��Her boss was an asshole.”
He chokes out a laugh. “Sounds like a story I’m familiar with.”
“No.” I shake my head, my hair, which I straightened within an inch of its life, swings over my shoulder. Max brushes it away. He hasn’t stopped touching it since we left the hotel. Normally people touching my hair irritates me to no end, but he’s cute, and the world currently thinks he’s a monster, so I let it slide. “He was nothing like you. You’re an asshole who mostly respects boundaries.”
“Mostly?”
“Well, I mean, you stomp all over the boundaries but with consent.”
Max’s jaw ticks. “Did he hurt her?” This is the P-Three I fell in love with. He tries to hide his heart under a glacier, but he’s a good man, deep down. Fair. Honest. A provider. A protector.
“No, he didn’t, not physically anyway. She wasn’t interested in anything but a mentor-mentee relationship and his ego couldn’t handle the rejection. He made her life hell in the kitchen. She came home in tears every day, and then she quit. Erin is a great chef, so she figured she’d land on her feet. But the jackass made it so no one would hire her.”
“Who is he?”
“It isn’t important,” I say, not because I don’t want to unleash the full force of Max’s wrath on the bastard, but because I know Erin wants to move on.
“It’s not hard information to find,” he muses, and I know if he had a phone he’d probably have fired off an order to one of his minions.
“Maybe we can put a pin in exacting revenge on my sister’s ex-boss when the world doesn’t think you manipulated me into a relationship.”
Max groans. “Fucking Karen.”
I lift my glass. “For the record, I’ve never met a Karen who wasn’t a bitch.”
“Or a Winston who wasn’t a dick,” Max adds and we clink glasses. James returns to clear our plates and drop the next course. A “salad” which is really just a few sprigs of arugula, with an apple gel and a pumpernickel crouton thingy he refers to as a crisp. It’s good, either way, and I inhale it.
“I really thought he was my friend,” I say, nibbling on Max’s crisp.
“I told you not to trust him.” The corners of his mouth turn down as he speaks. I know it’s because Winston bested him. But also, there’s more to it, I think.
The wine, fancy food, and affection makes me bold. So, I explore my theory. “I’m going to ignore the I told you so. What happened between the two of you? I mean he and Jalen seem, well, seemed to get along fine. You all grew up together, right?”
“Yeah, but Winston is younger. He was like the annoying little brother. But like not in a way that’s endearing. He did shit to pick at me. He’d get me in trouble. My dad was always hard on me. It didn’t take much for him to be disappointed in me. Winston was privy to that information and he exploited it often. In hindsight, it’s probably because of my relationship with Graham, Graham’s relationship with my mother. Anyway, he made it his life’s mission to ensure my father learned about every single one of my fuckups. It caused a rift that turned into a fucking canyon. My attraction to you was obvious from the start. I’m sure he befriended you because of it.”
“Douchebag,” I grit as James drops the next plate. Trout with lemon aioli. It’s beautiful. I reach into my purse and grab my phone.
“Do not Instagram this. It’s too millennial even for you, emoji girl.”
“It’s for my sister, asshole.” I snap a picture to send to Erin, then turn to Max. “Anyway. I’m sorry I didn’t listen.”
Max tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his breath warm against my lips. “Apology accepted.” His mouth brushes against mine, his tongue exploring, soft at first, his kiss languid. Before long it turns hungry. He nips at my bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth. I kiss him back with an equal amount of fervor, dragging my nails through his lush hair, yanking him closer to me. Binding him to me. After three courses of gentle touches and sweet words, my body is keyed up. My nipples are like tiny bullets, scraping against the luxurious fabric.
We’re being graphic and totally inappropriate, but despite the caviar breath, or our audience, we kiss and lick and bite until James clears his throat. “Ricotta-filled cremini mushrooms.” He drops the plates and scurries away. Max and I exchange a glance, our chests heave up and down wildly. He breaks first, flashing me his hundred-megawatt panty-dropping smile.
“You’re going to have to leave him a huge tip.” I giggle.
Max nods his agreement and takes a bite of his mushroom. “What kind of music do you like?”
“Beyoncé, Britney, Notorious B.I.G.,” I answer without even having to think.
Max scoffs. “You have shitty taste in music, Piss Girl.”
“I have shitty taste? Why, because I don’t like nineties grunge and alt rock? I bet you have every Lithium Springs album ever made, even the indie stuff, am I right?”
Max gives me a smug shrug and flicks a piece of lint from his knee. “So, you’ve never let some jerk-off feel you up while Sex God played in the background?”
I purse my lips. God, I really am a basic bitch sometimes. “Okay, Lithium Springs isn’t bad, but music is art, and art is subjective. I like to listen to music that inspires me, and Beyoncé does that. Just because it’s popular doesn’t mean it’s bad, and maybe if you weren’t such a pretentious asshole, you’d realize listening to sad rock songs doesn’t make you deep or introspective, just like me listening to Toxic doesn’t mean I’m vain or vapid.”
Max holds his hands up in surrender. “I’m with you when you’re right.” He grins, kissing the corner of my mouth. We finish our mushrooms. A few beats later, Max speaks. “What’s your favorite Biggie song?”
“Big Poppa.”
“Doesn’t get any more poetic than lyrical douches in your bushes.”
I lift my glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
A few hours and a full belly later we walk hand in hand back to our hotel. While wind whips my hair into my face and the outside world speculates about our relationship, I’ve never been surer of anything in my life. We might break up tomorrow, or next week or next month, but I can’t worry about potential heartache when being with him, being in this moment, feels so right.
“I’m stuffed,” I say smiling up at the Prince of Manhattan.
“You sure ate enough.”
“And you sure know how to ruin a perfectly romantic evening.”
“Who says it’s over?” Max’s brow lifts and I follow his line of sight. He’s led me past the elevators to a conference room, rearranged to look like a movie theater.
Two plush recliners sit in the middle of the room, facing a projector screen. A table with every snack imaginable sits along the left wall. Despite the twelve courses still sitting on my belly, I snag a bag of Swedish Fish before kicking my shoes off and snuggling up in my recliner.
“I looked for a theater that plays old movies but, of course, that type of shit only works out in books.” Max hits the lights and a few buttons on the projector. The opening credits to The Breakfast Club roll as he kicks off his shoes and joins me.
“I thought you didn’t like movies,” I say, peeking at him from the corner of my eye. We’ve been intimate, both physically and emotionally, yet I feel like a schoolgirl on her first date.
“I don’t, but you do and if I have any hope of catching your obscure referencing, then I need to do my homework.”
Yeah, my heart is happy. Let’s just hope it stays happy once we get back to New York.
Ellie is a stubborn asshole. There’s no way around it. She does what she wants and doesn’t really give a fuck how I feel about it. Which is why no sooner than the jet landed, instead of lying low and fucking on every surface of my penthouse, we came to Brooklyn so she could go to work. The old Max would have tied her to the bed and fucked her into submission, but new, pussy-whipped Max has his laptop perched on the sticky bar top sending out emails to the handful of clients who are willing to remain loyal to me and Jalen.
/>
After spending four days in Chicago, the news of our relationship was finally starting to lose steam, thanks in large part to a three-day blackout in Queens which led to the discovery of a corrupt utility company. We thought the dust had settled until this morning’s press conference announcing the change in power at Anderson Capital blew us right back above the fold.
My email pings just as a tumbler of something dark and strong lands in front of me. I look up just in time to see Ellie’s ass jiggling as she makes her way to the other end of the bar. Okay, there is one good thing about Woody’s; those tiny shorts on Ellie’s peach-shaped ass make me want to lose my religion and start a new one, one where my gorgeous girl is on her hands and knees with her back arched and my face buried between those perfect round globes.
Focus, Max, focus. I adjust my growing dick and turn my attention back to my laptop.
To: Max Anderson @ gmail.com
From: Howard Long, CEO of Long Wellness Group
Subject: Re: Your Offer.
Max,
You know how much I love you and Jalen. You also know that over fifty percent of my clientele is comprised of some of the most powerful women in the city. I can’t leave Anderson Capital, not after the news broke about Karen taking the helm and go with two infamous playboys. Especially one whose face is splashed all over Page Six.
It’s nothing personal.
Just smart business.
Best of luck,
Howard.
I slam my laptop shut. This Tasha King interview has to work, or else I’m going to need to rethink my career path. Another tumbler of cognac lands in front of me and I look up at Ellie’s mischievous gaze. “Are you trying to get me drunk, Piss Girl?”
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